


Teaching Is the Easy Part

by AJadeLion



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Brief Mentions Of Disordered Eating, Byleth is a big sister/mom to 8 kids and it's hard, F!Byleth, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hurt And Some Comfort, Jeralt is a great dad and you can't change my mind, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre Release, So not canon compliant, blink and you miss it implied abuse, everyone is there but it's not centric on any one person really, kids under stress, no amnesia or Sothis, no romantic relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 10:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJadeLion/pseuds/AJadeLion
Summary: Byleth becomes a teacher. It's surprisingly easy.Byleth becomes a big sister. It's surprisingly difficult.The Blue Lions have a lot of baggage. Byleth tries her best.





	Teaching Is the Easy Part

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know man. I had an idea and I don't think this is it. I have feelings about my children and I need angst before I can let them be happy.  
> I took plenty of liberties that aren't going to track with canon so I figured I'd better get them out now.  
> I gave them a proper garden because it's what they deserve. 
> 
> The little scenes are non-linear but I don't think it actually matters.  
> I might expand on some of the scenarios in their own fics at some point but who knows
> 
> I'm too ace to write any real relationships but I support these kids in pretty much any imaginable combination so feel free to read however you want.

Byleth sits at the desk that’s supposed to be her’s. The chair is too big and the way her legs swing reminds her of scampering around with her father’s chest plate reaching down to her knees. It’s how she learned, running wild and free. She doesn’t remember the last time she sat in a library, learned from a book, took a test. 

Manuela sweeps across the room with timeless ease before leaning against the desk, “Nervous darling?” Despite the late hour, Byleth notes that Manuela’s lipstick looks fresh and every hair is tucked perfectly in place. She’s at home in this environment and Byleth can’t help but wonder how that took. 

“I don’t know how to teach,” Byleth admits. Everyone has so much faith in her abilities but that doesn’t just make her a teacher. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Manuela dismisses with a wave. Byleth opens her mouth to protest but with another easy wave of her hand, Manuela has pushed a wayward section of hair back behind Byleth’s ear. “Teaching is the easy part.” 

Before Byleth has a chance to ask her what that could possibly mean, Manuela is back on her feet and nearly out the door. 

The Blue Lions are good kids. Despite a shared stubborn nature, they’re mostly respectful and eager. Still young, still fresh they have moldable minds and so much unfound potential. 

She’s hard on their fighting skills because she knows they can take it. Strong in the fundamentals, all of them are more than capable with a variety of weapons. Most of them at least passable with magic. But they didn’t come to the Academy to be average. So Byleth pushes them; they train and study and train and study, and slowly but surely her students start to blossom into the potential she always saw in them. 

She’s doing it. She’s teaching. She’s teaching and she loves it and that’s a good thing because the more she loves teaching, the less she has to think about the parts she hates. 

(“Hey kiddo,” Jeralt greets, absurdly functional for such an early hour. With a lopsided grin he uses a familiar hand to smooth down some of Byleth’s unruly hair. 

Byleth finishes her tea with a long sigh. Finally she gathers her courage, “How do you sleep?” 

Jeralt’s brow furrows and his lip twitches in amusement, “How _did_ I sleep?”

Byleth shakes her head “No. How _do_ you sleep.” She swallows “How do you sleep when you’re a parent?”

The smile vanishes. )

_How do you sleep? How do you sleep? How do you sleep,? How do you sleep? How do you sleep?_

_How do you sleep?_ It plagues her more with every passing night. Even as the Monastery feels more and more like a home, a full night of sleep has never felt further away. 

_How can she sleep when there are now eight other living souls that she’s sworn to protect._ How can she sleep when just one midnight stroll around the Monastery will find so many of her students not in their beds?

She finds Dimitri training alone, practically repeating the lessons from that morning, pushing his body far beyond the limits she asks of him. Mercedes, pacing the halls, her eyes shut and hands clenched as she quietly murmurs to a higher power. Ashe almost disappears, camouflaged in the library where Byleth will find him silently slumped over an open book.

 _How do you sleep?_ Byleth patiently uses a firm hand to guide each of her wandering students back to their appropriate chambers with orders to rest but she knows she can’t force sleep to come. 

_How can she sleep when she knows her students can’t?_

Now that she’s spent multiple nights in the forest with her House, Byleth knows that none of her students sleep through the night undisturbed. Not a single one. They toss and turn and quietly whimper names that Byleth cannot put faces to. On good nights the nightmares pass without causing a large disturbance and Byleth is the only one who loses a night of sleep. On the bad ones, a piercing scream will wake the whole group and while they don’t talk about it, no one gets any more rest that night. 

__

_How can she sleep when she knows her students don’t feel safe?_

_How can she sleep when there are rumours that a traitor to the church walks the halls of the Monastery and no one knows what they’re planning?_

_How can she sleep when she’s terrified every time one of her students close their eyes she’s never going to see them open them again?_  
  
Objectively Byleth knows Sylvain is going to be fine. The wound was deep and the poison was potent but the location was lucky. The moment Mercedes had cast the first heal he’d been out of immediate danger. 

The instant Manuela takes over, she promises Byleth that the fever Sylvain is spiking was a natural body reaction. It’s healthy and normal and it should break by morning. Still, it’s too long. Too long for Sylvain; the boy who is so full of life and motion, refusing to be defined by his sadness, to be laying so still, hair matted to his sweat-soaked forehead. 

Byleth sits by the infirmary cot, watching at the wall clock ticks agonizingly slow. Dimitri snaps at Dedue, only to apologize profusely a couple of seconds later. Ingrid stands, cradling her arm, absently gazing straight ahead as her fingers trace the outline of an injury long healed.  
If she lets them stay for a moment longer, they’ll never leave. She forces each one towards the door, telling them to get sleep though she doubts any of them will obey. She just can’t let them watch this. She has the be the one who makes sure he wakes up. 

With her adrenaline faded, Byleth starts to feel fatigue setting in. The chair is just uncomfortable enough to keep her awake. She focuses on watching Sylvain’s breathing; she hates how it’s too shallow and too fast, but at least it’s there and steady as he sleeps off the last of this nightmare of a day. She can only hope the rest of them sleep it off too. 

A soft melody pulls Byleth from her daydreaming. She twists searching for the source of the music. It’s Manuela, because of course, it’s Manuela. But’s so unlike the technical complex songs she always shows off in the choir hall. There’s no convoluted plot about doomed lovers, just sweet simple notes. As she sings about the bird on his tree, Byleth swears she can hear the bird himself singing along. 

“Oh hello,” Manuela stops singing as she approaches Byleth “I thought you’d be asleep by now.” 

Byleth shifts her weight around in the chair just enough that she can feel her legs again “What was that song?” 

“Oh that? Just an old lullaby.” 

“It’s nice.” 

“You certainly look like you could use one.”

(When Jeralt puts down his fork in the middle of breakfast, Byleth knows the next words out of his mouth won’t be good “Hey kiddo? You alright?”

She hates it when her father looks at her like that. Like he knows what she’s thinking. Which is impossible because she doesn’t even know what she’s thinking “Uh huh. Fine.”

Jeralt nods. Not convinced but not pressing any further “You going to eat something?” 

Right. Byleth thinks, she’s supposed to be eating. )

_How do you eat? How do you eat? How do you eat? How do you eat? How do you eat? How do you eat?_

_How do you eat?_ It’s easy, right? Food, mouth, chew, swallow. Byleth’s been doing it her entire fucking life. She likes to think she’s even better at it than she is at sleeping. But now her body has learned a new trick where her stomach can go from starving to being tied in knots in seconds flat. 

_How can she eat when she has eight other living souls she’s sworn to look after?_ How can she eat, when every meal makes Dedue miss his homeland? When Ashe still tucks rolls in his sleeves in case he needs them later? When Annette has to hide her disappointment when her efforts to please everyone go unnoticed?

_How can she eat when even the most talented of girls are valued by the size of their waists?_

Byleth respects Ingrid being more comfortable in armor than in a frilly dress. She’s the same way herself. But Ingrid herself asks to come along on the shopping trip and of course, Byleth says yes. 

Annette gives an excited twirl, the billowing skirt flying up in a carousel of color. Mercedes claps her hands as she laughs with delight. Ingrid smiles too, but Byleth notes the way Ingrid’s eyes keep anxiously returning to the rack of wedding dresses. 

Byleth knows Annette could try on dresses all day. She has the taste and the shape for it as well as an all-loving companion in Mercedes. Ingrid looks in the unfeeling mirror once and then keeps her arms crossed over her waist protectively. She says maybe five more words for the entire afternoon. 

_How can she eat when it reminds her how a girl born to be a knight she might have to be a docile wife?_

At dinner that night, Ingrid is still quiet. Byleth watches at the girl who normally lights up at the idea of food, makes her way through the meal slow and methodical. Byleth has never seen Ingrid do anything delicately before. That’s not saying she’s brutish, even with all of her strength she’s full of elegance and grace. A dangerous storm who’s path you’re careful not to cross. Certainly not the type to resign herself to delicate bites and speaking only spoken to. It’s like only half of Ingrid is really present. It's a terrifying thought. 

Come dessert time, Mercedes breaks out a dish of still steaming cookies. Ingrid gratefully takes one but after a silent moment of contemplation, she deposits the entire thing onto Felix’s plate. With a disgusted grunt, Felix nudges it over to Dimitri’s plate where it’s quickly retrieved by Sylvain. Ingrid’s attention is trained too firmly on her own folded hands to acknowledge Sylvain’s questioning eyebrow raise.  
Byleth’s own mouthful of cookie suddenly feels heavy. 

_How can she eat?_

_How can she eat when she knows she’s not the only one who’s anxieties twist away hunger?_

Dimitri had asked for an hour alone, but the clock tower tells Byleth he’s been gone closer to two. He’d been uncharacteristically snappy and frustrated so Byleth granted his request to go for a solo ride during part of their lunch time. Now, she prays she didn’t horribly miscalculate. 

If Dedue is worried, it’s hard for Byleth to tell. He stands, dutiful as ever. His face doesn’t betray what he must be feeling about his artfully assembled plate of food, sitting abandoned in the dining hall. As Dimitri has become more evasive around mealtimes; always too busy training, too busy studying, too busy doing anything else, Dedue has equally stepped up his efforts in making food enticing. 

Byleth doesn’t entirely blame Dimitri. He carries more responsibility and weight on his shoulders than should ever be asked of a boy his age. The knowledge that’s there’s an entire nation that will look to you could take anyone’s appetite. She feels it too. But she’s a professor and her students are supposed to do as she says, not as she does.

When Dimitri does ride back in, he at least had the decency to do it with at least a little urgency. As soon as he spots Byleth and Dedue waiting, he dismounts and hands Aurther’s reins over to the eager stablehand. Dimitri straightens his spine and quickly combs his fingers through his wind mussed hair.

Byleth knows she should scold him. Unreasonable pressure or not, they had a deal. But then he gets closer and with a jolt, Byleth realizes he’s smiling. Not the even, practiced, Head of House, Prince of Faerghus smile he dazzles dignitaries with. No, this is the shy, sheepish, slightly lopsided smile, the one where you can see the place he chews on his lower lip. The smile that erases the concerned lines on his face and the tension from his eyes. 

“I know,” Dimitri starts, holding out a hand to keep Byleth from cutting him off “I’m sorry.”  
Byleth is trying to comprehend how less than two hours alone on a horse have successfully transformed Dimitri back from overworked ruler to apologetic teenager. It’s been way too long since she’s seen his eyes this bright. Hell, she’s so far gone for this kid. 

Finally, she opens her mouth “Are you hungry?”  
In a complete 180 from him gruffly brushing Byleth off earlier, Dimitri answers with a laugh, “Starving” 

The soft gasp of relief from Dedue is echoed in Byleth’s heart and the knots start to untie themselves. “Go eat.” 

“Not without you.” 

(Byleth studies the polish on her sword with methodical intensity. 

“Hey kiddo? You should probably breathe.” Jeralt takes an exaggerated deep breath and, out of habit, Byleth follows suit. 

When she was a teenager, Byleth would hold her breath while she was training. She would get so caught up in following her opponent that she would literally stop breathing. 

Her father would watch her technique with an approving eye but time and time again he reminded her that she could never win the battle externally if she was too busy beating herself internally. 

So they started practicing breathing. Byleth isn’t sure when they stopped doing that. Based on the pull in her chest on the exhale, she’s been doing a lot of holding her breath again. )

_How do you breathe? How do you breathe? How do you breathe? How do you breathe? How do you breathe?_

_How do you breathe?_ If there’s one thing Byleth should be able to do it, it’s breathing. And she does, mostly. But 99 percent isn’t 100 and one of these days it’s going to catch up to her. But what can she do? How do you force yourself to do something you shouldn’t even have to think about doing? 

_How can she breathe when are eight other living souls she’s sworn to protect?_ She’s never had this many lives tied to her before. She’s never known people who can say and do things that just make her stop breathing for a moment. 

_How can she breathe when entire cities have been destroyed and children are left staring at the rubble?_

Byleth loves the house garden. She’s never been good with plants, never even really been around someone with a green thumb. Someone once told her that her mother loved flowers but could never keep them alive. Apparently, she did get something from her mom. So she loves the house garden. It’s uniquely theirs.

It’s a popular study spot. Sylvain appreciates the shade from the biggest tree, while Mercedes makes her daily rounds to stop and smell the flowers. Dedue tends to it more devotedly than he tends to anything that isn’t Dimitri. He always knows which plants need water and which need weeding and which just need a pleasant conversation. Byleth doesn’t understand it but she finds it incredibly compelling to watch. 

She finds Dedue cradling a new plant in his hands, standing over a freshly dug hole. She doesn’t know the name, but she feels like she’s seen this plant before. Delicate leaves with small blue flowers growing in intricate spirals. 

“A transplant?” 

Dedue nods, gently placing the plant down, “They’re all transplants. Most of them were damaged and struggling when I salvaged them but the roots were strong and they just needed a chance to grow. This one is your’s.”

Byleth watches as he pats the earth around the new transplant, solidifying its place in the garden. Between Dimitri’s royal roses and Ashe’s tulips, it looks small and undergrown but she has complete faith that it will thrive here as well. 

As Dedue gives her plant its first drink of water, Byleth feels like she herself is being plunged under the ocean to be born anew. She prepares to take her first breath.

__  
How can she breathe when she has students who are afraid of her?  
  
The arrow hits the target right in the center ring. Felix hummed a pleased note, satisfied with his aim. Byleth isn’t watching the target however, she’s watching his form. 

She’s searching for something, anything in his technique that might explain this recurring pain in his right arm that bothers him every time he uses a bow. The obvious answer is that it’s an overuse injury. But Byleth assumes telling Felix to take it easy in training is less effective than yelling it at a brick wall. So she searches for any adjustments she can offer as advice that won't result in her getting her head bit off. 

“Do it again,” She orders. The arrow hits just below the first. “Draw back but don’t release.” 

Byleth circles around him slowly. She checks and double-checks each of his angles. Ultimately, she decides it has to be his shoulder. If that’s where the pain is and she can’t find anything else obvious, it follows that there’s where the technique issue is. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not pegasi. 

Before she has a chance to say anything, Felix flinches. His fingers slip and the arrow sails off hitting the very edge of the target. 

Byleth’s hand is still out, reaching where Felix’s arm was a few seconds previous. It was her. Her hand had barely settled on his arm and he’d flinched. He’d flinched away from her. It wasn’t a wince in pain or a jump in surprise. He’s scared of her. 

The way he immediately repairs his mask, replacing every trace of fear with an illusion of calm while still refusing to meet her eye, confirms Byleth’s fears. 

She thinks of how tense Felix gets whenever he reads letters from his father. Well, the letters that Sylvain doesn’t intercept, confiscate and destroy without ever mentioning their existence to their intended recipient. 

She thinks of Felix constantly seeking validation in combat. And yes, for his age his technical abilities are top tier. She doesn’t want to know how he got here. What was asked of him and what it cost him. 

Byleth has defeated each of her students at least twice in one-on-one combat. She doesn’t do it to be cruel. She does it so they can learn. She doesn’t want them to actually be scared of her. Doesn’t want them to think she’d ever hurt them. 

Wordlessly, Felix steps aside and draws another arrow. 

Byleth forgets to breathe. 

_How can she breathe when the world seems determined to beat the good out of the kindest people?_

Byleth has never really cared how her food looks. It doesn’t have to be pretty to be edible. She tells Annette that her tray of bubbling puddles of macaron batter smells absolutely divine. It’s not enough to stop tears from escaping Annette’s eyes as she scrapes her latest failures onto the top of the growing pile of rejects. 

Mercedes’ birthday marches ever closer and as it does, Byleth sees Annette’s resilience get tested for the first time. Every time she gets disarmed, Annette is always ready to get back up. But these macarons, these damn macarons are threatening to break her.

Part of Byleth wants to tell her to stop. Remind Annette that Mercedes will still love if all her she has to offer is a hug. That the good she’s done with the countless meals she’s assembled without complaint cannot be undone with one batch of lopsided sweets. 

She can’t watch Annette do this to herself. For most of her students, Byleth is too late. She can’t go back and fix all that is broken. They have to live with their fake smiles, nightmares and broken families. For them, the way out is through and Byleth just has to keep them marching on. 

Annette though, Annette maybe she can still save. Keep her from losing that light in her eyes and the bounce in her step. 

“I can’t,” Annette says, the phrase sounding foreign in her mouth “It’s impossible.”

No. Byleth thinks. No no no. You can’t take Annette. Not the one student who still sees the good in the world without even trying. Whose heartfelt songs can turn the most mundane of tasks enjoyable. In the kitchen and the training arena alike, Annette never does just what is asked of her. Her spirit takes her above and beyond to show how much she cares. 

Byleth isn’t dumb, she knows this isn’t just about the macarons. The world keeps lying to Annette, letting her she’s weak for refusing to break when it says to. She’s been pushed and she’s pushed back but now she’s dangerously close to stepping off the edge of no return. 

Byleth pulls out the last clean bowl and with more confidence than she feels, turns to Annette “One more try. Together.”

She holds her breath as Annette wipes her tears and gives a shaky exhale. Byleth isn’t giving up on her, she better not be giving up on herself. 

_How can she breathe when every day she hears about soldiers who leave and never return?_

Byleth’s been stabbed before. In general, it hasn’t been a big deal. That’s just what growing up with Jeralt was like. Heck, she’s sure her father has personally stabbed her a couple of times. Gently and with an appropriate warning ahead of time. It turns out that when learning out to treat various wounds, it helps to know what those various wounds feel like. 

So Byleth is no stranger to being stabbed. But this time is different. This is a full fucking magic sword through her back and out her chest. Which seems bad. She feels herself falling towards the ground. She’s not entirely sure why the owner of the sword hasn’t come to retrieve it from her person but she’s pretty sure she should be grateful. 

_How can she breathe when there’s metal through her chest?_  
She tries to do what she tells all of her students to do; stay calm and breathe, stay calm and breathe. She’s failing at both of these things. What if they’re horrible outmatched? What if she’s failed to train and prepare her students for this? What if she gets them all killed? The last thing she is, is calm. And breathing. Every breath she tries to draw makes her more and more certain that her chest is on fire. That pain certainly stronger than any benefit from whatever oxygen she’s managing to pull in. 

However noble it is to take a blow for your students, it’s still fucking embarrassing to die in front of them.

She hears a voice over her yelling commands and it takes a moment for Byleth to place it as Ashe. Quiet, studious Ashe, is carrying himself with such calm and composure, that if it weren’t already burning with pain, her chest would swell with pride. Ashe must hear how she’s struggling to pull air, because Byleth manages to make out ‘lung’ in the middle of one of his sentences. Ashe goes silent and Byleth assumes he’s scampered off until she feels his fingers weave tightly into her’s. 

“It’s alright!” A breathless voice that sounds like Mercedes calls, “You’re going to be alright.”

Byleth’s eyelids flutter shut. 

When she opens her eyes again, the fire in her chest is gone, as is the sword that struck her. Her whole body is stiff and heavy, just the idea of trying to move hurts, but she knows she’s no longer dying. The battlefield has quieted and her students have all gathered around her. 

It’s a chore just to count the seven standing figures. Ashe, still kneeling by her side, makes eight. They’re all here, they all made it. A quick scan indicated they’re each still in one piece. Ingrid sprouts a new gash horrifyingly close to her left eye, while Felix braces his right arm awkwardly against his ribs, but neither seems particularly bothered. 

They all stare at her expectantly. It’s like when she misspells something on the chalkboard, only a dozen times worse. “Well.” she tries but it comes out as a croak. She clears her throat and starts again, “Well, that could have gone better.” 

_How can she breathe when she’s making soldiers out of children?_

No one laughs. No one evens cracks a smile. They all just stare; exhausted, hurt and terrified. Even though they’re all alive, Byleth feels like she’s failed them somehow. She has two functional lungs again but it still feels hard to breathe. 

_How can she breathe when now she understands the fear in her father’s eyes?_

Byleth hasn’t seen her father cry in over a decade. She knows he does cry, she's not that naive. It’s just that ever since she was a girl, he hasn’t done it in front of her. So when Jeralt comes rushing into the infirmary, eyes bright with tears, Byleth feels her own brave face stark to slip. “Dad,” she breathes, her voice cracking on the one syllable. 

Wordlessly, Jeralt presses his forehead against Byleth’s, and, despite how exhausted she is, she pulls herself up to lean into his touch. 

_How can she breathe when her students stare like they don’t understand parental affection?_

Eight pairs of eyes. She can feel them all watching her. They watch Byleth in the same way that they observe wild animals. Full of curiosity and amazement sure, but not quite comprehending the full meaning. They don’t understand how adults, experienced and toughened can still be kind and gentle parents. They don’t see it's what they’ve always deserved. Byleth hates that. 

Even as Jeralt walks away, none of her students make to move. They stand perfectly still, waiting to be dismissed. Better than they typically wait to be dismissed from lecture. 

With their wounds tended to and the bravado from the battlefield faded, they’re just scared kids. Kids trying and failing to keep fear from their faces.  
“I have to tell you something.” Byleth starts “I love you all.” 

They don’t say it back. It’s fine. She didn’t expect them to. They’re not ready. Which is fine. They’re here to learn and they’re to grow. She’s here to help. What matters is that they understand. That they believe her. She takes a deep breath. Slowly, she notices her students following suit. 

Maybe they can remember how to breathe together. 

(Byleth doesn’t understand how her father manages to show up in the classroom when she happens to be waving her right shoe around, or stroll by her training sessions right when she nearly decapitated Sylvain, but when she’s actually looking for him he’s the hardest man to track down. 

She’s about to give up. Tired of jogging the halls based on vague directions people who may or may not have actually seen Jeralt, she’s ready to just call it a day. She has better things to do with her free time. 

“Hey kiddo. You wanted to talk to me?” 

Byleth looks up at the familiar voice. She wonders if he remembers the first time she ran off. Really ran off. She’d meant to come back that night but she’d gotten lost. By the time she’d found her way back, she was terrified he wouldn’t want her anymore. He’d smoothed her eternally messy hair and promised that she could always come back. The most important job he’d ever taken was to love her. 

She swallows hard “Yeah. Um. I love you.” 

She doesn't have to move before she's being pulled into his broad chest “I’m so proud of you.”)

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do something more for each of the students but I just, I couldn't deal anymore. I still love them. 
> 
> This is a totally different style than anything I've ever attempted before and honestly I'm still not sure how I feel about it.


End file.
